Sherlock: The Written Tales
by MegaOtaku777
Summary: This is merely a written account of the show Sherlock as shown on BBC. In the center of London, there lives a man: calculating, witty, quick thinker, and incredibly dull when it comes to emotions. And just who is this man? Whay, none other than the famous Sherlock Holmes. (Rated T for violence, gore, and later slight sexual content.)
1. Sherlock: A Study in Pink: Part 1

_Okay, I'm giving you all fair warning. I DID NOT COME UP WITH THIS PIECE OF WORK. I am merely putting the wonderful show "Sherlock" into words. If you were looking for a Sherlock fanfic, turn away. I'm simply narrating the series for those who don't have access to it or have never heard of it. Maybe both._

_The show, its concept, and its characters do not belong to me. If they did, Johnlock wouldn't only be something fantasized about in dark secluded corners of the internet._

_I hope you enjoy reading this even more than I did writing it!_

* * *

_Flashes._

_Pictures._

_Sounds._

_Images coursed through the man's brain: men in tan uniforms, speckled in darker brown splatters; bombs erupting and shooting off chutes of debris into the sky; guns firing, the barrels ablaze with light; soldiers kicking down the door to a simple apartment only to arrest a criminal inside; his friends, comrades, smiling at him with impish mischief before falling down dead._

_The man tossed and turned in his sleep as more pictures and sounds assaulted his nightmarish mind._

_Villagers crying as American soldiers stormed through their village and men shrieking as bullets tore through their flesh. Simple civilians cowering as missiles few above their heads and soldiers taking cover as bullets shot towards them. The man saw himself fall to the ground, clutching his leg, feeling the red blood pouring through his fingertips—_

John shot up in bed, screaming in terror, trying to fight off imaginary foes with sleep-addled limbs. His breath came in short gasps as he stared around his colorless room, the details going in and out as he tried to focus on the present. All around him, blank tan walls stared back at him, reminding him that he was no longer on the battlefield. He was safe. He was in London, not in the Middle East. He was safe. He was in his own bed, not in the cot that the military issued to him. He was safe. He was safe. He was safe…

He flopped back onto the bed, one hand on his stomach and the other behind his head. He put a technique to use that he had learned from his therapist: right hand raised above your head, and take deep, steady breaths. Unfortunately, that didn't work quite as he had hoped.

Against his will, tears started to slip out of John's eyes, his thin mouth pulling downwards into a frown. He searched frantically around the room to find something to focus on, to distract him, but all he found were walls devoid of any pictures and a floor empty of anything but a bedside table. He settled for a beam of morning light cast on the wall beside him, focusing on it and trying to get his emotions under control.

When a half hour passed John by, it was clear that that approach wasn't successful. Instead, he stood up, refusing to wipe away the tears that lingered. He turned on the lamp in the far corner, shedding a bit more light in the room than the window alone could provide. He sat once more on the side of his small bed, surveying his surroundings: the lamp against the far wall, his bed, a desk, and the walking cane that he always kept with him.

He sighed heavily, peering down at the hands clasped in his lap. _'What's happened to me?'_ he wondered silently, trying to block out the memories of the nightmare.

With limited success.

* * *

By the time the sun had fully risen, John was walking about his apartment, even if it was with some difficulty. The events of that morning had already been pushed to the back of his mind, and the man was getting ready to enjoy his morning breakfast: a granny smith apple with a glass of sugarless coffee. The depressing interior of the room was alight with the brightness of the sun, but it still didn't change the demeanor of the chamber. The walls were still barren, and everything inside was still a dull tan color.

John ignored the sorry state of his apartment, electing instead to a take a seat at the desk. However, getting there proved to be a problem. His right hand gripped the metal walking stick tightly as he maneuvered himself into the chair, grunting painfully as he jarred his damaged leg. He set his breakfast down on the small computer table and opened the drawer to retrieve a red-bound leather notebook. John ignored the gun hidden underneath; it was only for protection.

John flipped open his laptop, staring at the screen and lacing his fingers together. The screen portrayed a blogging website, with a few words scrawled near the top:

THE PERSONAL BLOG OF DR. JOHN H. WATSON

However, the space beneath, where others would normally have passages describing their daily lives and what went on during the week, was blank.

Just like his room.

* * *

"How's your blog going?"

John simply looked at the therapist with a blank expression. Cars honked outside the building noisily, as if they didn't have anything better to do than ignore his session. However, John didn't notice them. It was only when the woman gave him a pointed look that he snapped out of his personal world.

"Yeah, good." He cleared his throat, trying to determine how much longer he had to be there. "Very good."

The woman smiled back at his, her brown features crinkling into a grin of disapproval. "You haven't written a word, have you?" This was more of a statement than a question.

John glanced down at her notepad. "You just wrote 'still has trust issues'."

"And you read my writing upside-down," she quipped back. "You see what I mean?" She made it a point to cover up her words with her hand, earning a small, grim grin from John. It only lasted a second.

"John," the therapist started, leaning forward to look at the graying man in the eyes, "you were a soldier. It's going to take you a while to adjust to civilian life. And writing a blog about everything that happens to you will honestly help you." She had had this conversation with this particular man several times, but no matter how many times she'd stared into those blank eyes, begging for him to understand, she always got the same answer:

"Nothing happens to me."

* * *

_AN: I an incredibly sorry for the short length of this chapter. It's just that I won't have time to work on the rest of it tonight (or tomorrow, or probably the day after that), I wanted to get it out, and the real show is about an hour or two long for every episode. Plus I thought it would be better if I split the episode up between a few chapters, just so you guys aren't overloaded with stuffs. So, I hope you enjoy it!_


	2. Sherlock: A Study in Pink: Part 2

_By the way, I forgot to mention something: The first chapter was one minute of the actual episode. So I'll try to make this one maybe two or three minutes long. Enjoy!_

* * *

It was October 12th, and the gloomy sky of London was the same as always. The clouds threatened rain, but they rarely fulfilled their promises. They merely sat in the sky, keeping watch over the city and making it unbearably warm and bone-chillingly cold all at once. The twisting towers spiraled up to meet the gray clouds, attempting to reach their height and keep their occupants safe and dry.

Inside one of these buildings, a woman paced around in her office, a cell phone held up to her ear, her face twisted into a slightly worried expression.

"What do you mean there's no ready car?" the man on the other line muttered, clearly not satisfied with his situation.

The woman muttered a reason that the man couldn't quite hear, ending with an apology. "—I'm sorry. Get a cab," she was saying, trying to reason with her father on the other line.

"I never get cabs," he retorted playfully.

His daughter sighed on her end of the line, smiling as she pictured her father stubbornly standing in the gloomy weather, waiting for a car out of spite. She looked over her shoulder, keep a lookout for anyone who might have been eavesdropping, muttering a quick "I love you" into the phone.

He opened his mouth, preparing to say something back to her, when she cut him off. "Get. A. Cab," she laughed, pressing the End Call button on her cell phone.

The man looked at his phone incredulously, as if wondering whether or not he should heed his daughter's orders. Looking around at the mass of swirling people, all in a hurry to get somewhere, the man was suddenly overtaken by an extreme need to get out of there. Not only was it stuffy inside the airport, but he missed his family sorely. He shrugged his shoulders, heading outside to where the taxis waited to escort their passengers home.

..:..:..:..:..:..:..:..:..:..:..:..:..:..

About an hour later, the man held a small glass vial in his hands, examining the contents inside. Three tiny pills with white and black beads of medication inside, sat in the jar, as if daring him to open it. He unscrewed the lid, holding the tiny pill in his shaking fingers. It was no bigger than his fingernail, but he knew that it held the key to life or death.

He listened to the sounds of the streets below: the people as they chatted about their peaceful lives; the cars as they jostled in the roadways, competing for the top spot; even the sounds of construction wafted up to the room where the man sat.

The man didn't cry; he didn't moan about how he was going to miss his life. He simply slipped the small pill in between his lips.

Minutes later, that same man lay on the floor, twisted into odd and terrible angles. His face was pressed up against the full glass window, his hands clawing at it as if trying to escape. His lips on longer moved, and his chest neither rose nor fell.

He was dead.

..:..:..:..:..:..:..:..:..:..:..:..:..

"My husband…was a happy man," a woman started, folding her hands in her lap. She sat at a desk, penned in on either side by a man in a suit and a police officer, both of whom didn't look like they were paying attention to the emotion-laden words. The woman tried to keep back her tears as she continued with the press conference. "Lived life to the full. He loved his family," she paused as cameras flashed, "and his work." More cameras. "And that he should have taken his own life in this way…is a mystery and a shock to all who knew him."

One of the cameras off to the side was trained on the man's daughter. Her face mirrored her mother's, a tight and grim expression, trying to refrain from crying. Where it might have worked for her mother, it didn't work for her. She shut her eyes tightly, as if that simple action would bring her father back. A solitary drop of water slid down her cheek, resting on her lip before falling to the floor.

* * *

On November 26th, two boys were running along the sidewalk, one holding an umbrella over his head and other cowering under his jacket. The sky poured down upon them, which wasn't an odd occurrence in London. They scurried through the downpour, desperately searching for someplace warm and dry.

The one holding the collar of his jacket over his head broke into a wide and relieved smile when he spotted a cab coming down the street. "Yes, yes!" He whistled to the get driver's attention, waving one hand in the air. "Taxi!" However, the cab drove right by them, as if they weren't there.

The boy groaned in aggravation, stomping back over to his friend in frustration. "Give me two minutes," he sighed, stuffing his hands in his pockets and turning back.

"Why?" he friend demanded.

"I'm just going home to get an umbrella."

"You can share mine!" the other boy yelled after the first as he started to sprint away.

"Two minutes, all right?!" The boy in the jacket raced back down the street, ducking his head to keep the torrent of rain from his eyes.

However, after about five minutes of standing in the rain, the boy holding the umbrella turned around, heading down the street after his friend. No way was he going to stand around here waiting for him.

..:..:..:..:..:..:..:..:..:..:..:..:..

The boy wiped soaking hair from his eyes, staring at the small bottle in his hands. It held three, small white pills in the bottom, the pills rattling as he held them in his shaking hands. His mouth had gone dry a long while ago, and he was braking out in a cold sweat. His mouth was pulled in a frown, and frightened tears threatened to spill from his eyes.

He thought about his friend that he had left behind. He hoped that he wouldn't come looking; he wouldn't forgive himself if his friend got roped into this mess. He thought about his loving family, and how they would most likely find out about his death in the papers. He hated to leave them like this, but didn't really have a choice, according to his captor.

He ran the options around in his head. After thinking for a few moments, he decided that he didn't really have an option. He unscrewed the lid, popping the pills into his hand. His body was wracking with held-back sobs as he leaned against the glass wall overlooking an abandoned basketball court. Small tears dripped down his cheeks as he took the pills in his hands, bringing them up to his lips.

..:..:..:..:..:..:..:..:..:..:..:..:..:..:..

A few days later, the paper had a brand new headline; one that most civilians didn't even think twice about:

BOY, 18, KILLS HIMSELF INSIDE SPORTS CENTER

* * *

On January 27th, a grand party was in the making. A solid beat was hammering itself through the stereo system, and bright lights flashed in a spasmodic pattern, lighting up the dance floor. Outside the entrance to the ballroom sat a solitary sign, sporting the kind face of the woman for whom this party was held: Happy Birthday, Beth Davenport, the Junior Minister for Transportation. In theory, it would be a simple company get-together. Beth, however, had other plans.

He friend, a sharp-faced and primly-dressed woman, stalked out of the ballroom, glowering in annoyance. She nodded to her friend who was slumped on the bar counter. "She's still dancing," he stated in disbelief, simply guessing this from the look on the woman's face.

"Yep," she said tensely, coming to rest beside her friend, "if you can call it that." The woman had seen her fair share of inappropriate behavior on the dance floor, though most of it have been in high school. Beth, however, had surpassed all of her expectations.

"Did you get her cars keys?" the man asked, worried that Beth might be tempted to drive herself home, even though everyone knew how intoxicated she was.

The woman sighed, lifting up a set of jingling keys. "Got 'em out of her bag." She grabbed a glass of champagne off the bar, swirling it around in her hand.

The man beside her looked up, peering into the writhing crowd. "Where is she?"

The correct answer to his question would have been "in the parking lot, digging through her bag in search of her car keys". After a few moments of fruitless rummaging, Beth stood up and sighed, cursing her forgetfulness through her alcohol-hazed mind.

..:..:..:..:..:..:..:..:..:..:..:..:..

About a half an hour later, Beth was sobbing loudly, tears streaming down her cheeks unchecked. Her pupils were tiny dots in her eyes, and her head swiveled this way and that, trying to find some way out of the storing facility she was trapped in. She was terrified.

In her hands was a small vile, containing three even smaller white and black pills. She'd read the papers over the past months; she knew she was the killer's next target. She stared at the bottle of pills in her shaking hands, trying to think of a way to get out of this situation, to get out alive. She couldn't fathom one.

A broken sob came out of her throat as she lifted the bottle to her lips, sliding the pills down her throat.

* * *

"The body of Beth Davenport, Junior Minister for Transport, was found last night in a building on the roadside to London," a woman said simply, reading off the paper in front of her. The woman, along with a few of her fellow police officers, sat at the long table, listening to the clicks of cameras and waiting for the press conference to be over. Most of them gazed over the sea of journalists with a blank gaze.

"Preliminary investigations suggest that this was suicide. We can confirm that this apparent suicide closely resembles those of Sir Jeffery Patterson and James Philimore. In the light of this, these incidents are now being treated as linked. Investigation is ongoing, but Detective Inspector Lestrade," the woman turned to her colleague, "will take questions now."

Immediately, the room full of journalists and people craving a good story erupted in a clamor, silenced by a man whose voice was louder than the rest. The man swept a lock of curly black hair from his eyes before asking, "Detective Inspector, how can suicides be linked?" the man asked, his pen poised for writing.

Lestrade peered down at his interlaced hands, trying to formulate an answer. "Well, they all took the same poison, um, they were all found in places they had no reason to be…none of them had shown any prior indication—" At this point, he was cut off by the man with the curly hair again.

"But we can't have serial suicides," he pointed out.

"Well, apparently, you can," Lestrade quipped back.

"These three people, there's nothing that links them?" another man queried.

"There's nothing that we've found yet, but…we're looking for that; there has to be one."

Lestrade was about to open his mouth and continue, and perhaps answer a few more bothersome questions, but he was cut off once more; not by an inquisitive reporter, but by the ringing of cell phones. In fact, his own was buzzing impatiently, along with every other cellular device in the room. All of the attending people, even the police officers, glanced down to their phones, expecting to see a message about the case or a text from their spouse. Instead, they all read:

_Wrong!_

The woman who had been speaking earlier sighed in recognition, turning to the crowd of confused reporters. "I you all got texts, please ignore them."

The man who had asked the first question piped up. "It just says 'Wrong'."

"Yeah, well, just ignore that," she replied as politely as she could under the circumstances. "If there are no more questions for Detective Inspector Lestrade, I'm going to bring this session to an end." Her hands reached for her pile of papers, and she prepared to stand, when a hand shot in the air, accompanied by a voice.

"If they're suicides, why are you investigating?" the man asked, throwing a pointed look at Lestrade.

Lestrade paused for a moment. "As I said, th-these suicides are _clearly _linked. Um…It's an unusual situation, we've got our best people investigating—"

Once more, the Detective Inspector was interrupted by a plethora of ringing tones. And once more, everyone turned their attention to their cell phones, peering down at a word scrawled across their screens:

_Wrong!_

At this point, Lestrade was starting to get frustrated, and so was his female companion. The strain in her tone was evident as she spoke. "One more question."

This time, a woman spoke up. "Is there any chance that these are murders, and if they are is this the work of a serial killer?" The woman sounded totally calm as she said this, as if she mentioned people killing certain individuals for fun every day.

Lestrade ran a hand through his mostly gray hair. "I…I know that you like writing about these, but these so appear to be suicides. We know the difference. The, um, the poison was _clearly_ self-administered," Lestrade said, as if that would prove his point.

"Yes, but if they are murders, how do people keep themselves safe?"

"Don't commit suicide," Lestrade responded without thinking. The woman seemed taken aback, as if he had just verbally smacked her. The woman beside Lestrade muttered something to him under her breath, a reminder to keep calm or his reaction would be all over London within two days. He coughed to clear his throat and continued. "Obviously, this is a _frightening_ time for people," he stated, probably adding more sarcasm than needed, "but all anyone has to _do_…is exercise reasonable precautions. We are all as safe as we wanna be."

He stared out over the crowd, as if daring them to ask another question. However, the next response didn't come from a journalist, but from the cell phones.

Again.

Once more, everyone in the room peered down to see the same word roll across their message inbox:

_Wrong!_

Lestrade, being fed up with this, looked down at his own phone to find a totally different message:

_You know where to find me._

_SH_

A couple nervous coughs were heard around the room, breaths being held in anticipation at Lestrade's response. Instead, Lestrade pocketed his phone and stood, muttering a quick "thank you" to the sea of inquisitive news-people.

As Lestrade and his female coworker strode down the hallway in their office, the woman was the first to break the long silence that had filled their trip there. "You've got to stop him doing that; it's making us look like idiots."

"When you tell me how he does it, I'll stop him," Lestrade responded, trying to figure out what the great Sherlock Holmes thought about the case.

* * *

_AN: Woohoo! I got past five minutes of the show! Wow…the first episode is going to take a long while… Anyway, I hope that you decide to stick with me, and I'll try not to disappoint. If you see any errors or have any critique you want to give, leave a comment. I'd be happy to revise it and make it that much better. I hope this day finds you well, wherever you are!_


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